The Babe and the Baron (6 page)

Mrs. Lloyd appeared in the doorway. “Madam?”

“Show Lady Laura to her chamber, if you please.” Stiffly she turned to Laura. “We shall speak further at another time.”

At least she was to have a chance to exonerate herself, she thought as she followed the housekeeper. Her father had refused to listen and her mother, whom she had never seen again, had not answered her letters.

Mrs. Lloyd led her by way of the minstrel's gallery above the Great Hall to a door on the same floor, at the near end of yet another wing. “The Rose Suite, my lady.” Opening the door, she ushered Laura into a small sitting room. The predominant colour was blue, but carpet, curtains, and wallpaper were patterned with roses, pink and yellow, not so much faded as mellowed by time. “Your bedchamber is through here.” She opened another door. “This is Myfanwy, who will be waiting on you.”

A tiny, dark-haired girl with snowy starched apron and frilled cap curtsied, beaming. Laura nodded and smiled at her.

“His lordship dines at eight, my lady,” the housekeeper continued, “being used to Town hours. The family gathers in the Long Gallery first. Myfanwy will show you the way.”

Laura realized that nothing had been said of dinner on a tray. She was determined to dine with the family, both to prove to Gareth that she was no invalid and to defy any attempt to isolate her. That private sitting room might conceivably be due to her rank and her pregnancy, or it might be a hint that she was not welcome elsewhere.

She thanked Mrs. Lloyd, who left.

“I hung up your ladyship's gowns,” Myfanwy announced. “There's glad I am to be waiting on your ladyship. Auntie said to hold my tongue, but sometimes I must talk, look you, or there's bursting I'll be.”

“Of course. Is Mrs. Lloyd your auntie?”

“That she is, my lady. She's worked here at Llys Manor since afore I were born.” She pronounced Llys in the Welsh way, vastly different from the same word spoken by the English as in
fleur-de-lis
. “What will you be wearing for dinner, my lady?”

The wardrobe had not miraculously sprouted an elegant black silk evening dress. Laura picked out a calico which she had dressed up with a black velvet ribbon around the neckline. “Sponge and press it, please. Most of them need washing, and all of them ironing, as soon as you have time.”

“This very day, if all night it takes,” the girl vowed.

“Oh no, you must not stay up all night about it. I shall rest now and change for dinner at quarter past seven.”

“I'll be here on the dot, my lady.” Myfanwy rushed to fold back the blue, rose-embroidered counterpane and plump up already plump pillows. “Well aired it was this afternoon. Will you be wanting the warming pan, my lady?”

“Not now, thank you.” Laura gratefully accepted her aid with buttons and hooks, and was soon tucked in beneath the covers.

She did not sleep but drowsed, drifting through the impressions of the day. One insistent question nagged at her: why was Gareth in high fidgets over her pregnancy? He was considerate, generous, amiable, but if he insisted on guarding her from every least exertion they were going to come to cuffs sooner or later.

* * * *

Myfanwy returned with hot water and the refreshed gown. She chattered as she helped Laura wash, rebraid her hair, and dress. “Mr. Cornelius is come to dinner, him as is vicar. Chapel we are, but they do say he preaches a grand sermon, with ever so many long words. Indeed to goodness, my lady, you will not be wearing this gown much longer. Already let out it is at the seams, and there's tight the body is, look you.”

“I can feel it. I shall have to buy material and make up some new gowns.”

“I'll help you, my lady. Even Auntie says it's good with my needle I am. That's it now, let's see.” She regarded Laura with a dissatisfied look. “There's a pity you must wear black, pretty as you are, my lady. Will you be wearing a necklace?”

“Not tonight.” Nor any other night. Freddie had brought her pretty trinkets now and then, all soon to be sold when his luck faltered. How long ago and far away Freddie seemed now, like a dim memory from a different life, a different world, almost as distant as her life in her parents' home.

Myfanwy showed her down a short flight of stairs to the Long Gallery, running the width of the old house beneath the drawing room and behind the Great Hall. One long wall was panelled and hung with portraits of ancestors. Opposite, a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors looked out on a terrace and dripping gardens. The rain had stopped and in the west the sun set fire to the last fleeing streamers of cloud.

As Laura entered, a gentleman turned from consulting a mahogany-cased weather-glass hanging between two windows. He was obviously one of the Wyckham brothers, with the thick blond hair and blue eyes. In him the strong jaw tended to heaviness and he was considerably shorter than both Gareth and Rupert, his figure a trifle portly.

He came to meet her. “Am I correct, ma'am, in supposing you to be, hm, Lady Laura Chamberlain? Permit me to introduce myself: I am Cornelius Wyckham. Welcome to Llys Manor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wyckham. You are the vicar of Llys, I understand?”

“I do indeed serve that function in my, hm, humble fashion. May I offer my most sincere condolences, ma'am, on your recent, hm, unhappy loss? If religion can provide any, hm, consolation, I beg you will not hesitate to call upon me.”

His weighty pauses lent unwarranted significance to his words, making him sound pompous, though kindly. Laura responded to the kindness, with gratitude but careful not to suggest that she had any intention of turning to the Church for comfort. To do so would be sheer hypocrisy. She had been more comfortable since becoming a widow than ever during her marriage.

“I am, hm, glad of the opportunity to become acquainted,” said the vicar. “I understood from Gareth that your, hm, delicate condition precluded your joining the family for dinner.”

She suppressed a sigh but spoke through gritted teeth. “I assure you, sir, that I am perfectly well. As a clergyman, you must be aware that your female parishioners do not take to their beds only because they are breeding.”

The Reverend Cornelius was saved by Mrs. Forbes's arrival. She swept into the room, looking Laura's shabby widow's weeds up and down with undisguised smugness. Her own gown was of rose crape over a white satin slip, far too grand for the country, especially for a family dinner. Laura had no objection, since Maria's smartness seemed to have put her in a high good humour that her children were not present to dispel.

“I fear mourning becomes you ill, Cousin Laura,” she commiserated. “Such a trying colour, though when Mr. Forbes passed away people were kind enough to say that black enhanced my fairness.”

Laura returned a civil answer and Cornelius managed a ponderous compliment to both ladies. Miss Burleigh came in, followed shortly by Rupert and Gareth.

“Uncle Julius cannot be detached from his workbench this... Cousin Laura!” Before Gareth could order her to sit down, or even to retire to bed, Lloyd announced that dinner was served, narrowly averting a clash she was not ready for.

Gareth contented himself with giving her his arm into the dining room next door and plying her with delicacies. Fortunately her appetite had recovered from the buttered toast. She did full justice to the delicious meal, thanking heaven that at least he did not consider her one of those invalids requiring a diet of gruel.

Rupert entertained them with tall tales of the wild exploits of his fellow Guards officers. He captured Maria's attention—no mean feat when the subject was not herself—and even succeeded in bringing a smile to his aunt's thin lips. Laura revelled in the new experience of a family at ease.

She was unprepared for the wave of panic that swept over her when Miss Burleigh rose to lead the ladies' withdrawal. Suppose she took advantage of the gentlemen's absence to demand the accounting Laura had offered?

As the dining room door closed behind them, Laura said, “If you will excuse me, ma'am, I believe I shall retire now.”

She did not want Maria Forbes to learn her story. She dreaded baring her soul to Miss Burleigh and finding herself still condemned. Most of all, she could not bear to let the awful, humiliating memories loose in her own head.

Chapter 5

Laura ate breakfast in bed.

“His lordship ordered it, my lady,” Myfanwy had said anxiously, “and for all the kindest master he is, none on us'd disobey an order, look you.”

So she indulged him, and herself, and she found she enjoyed lounging against a stack of pillows with a tray of eggs and muffins on her lap, a pot of tea on the night-table. A day empty of chores awaited her, no dusting, no garden to be weeded, no marketing and no cooking. Through the open window came the fragrance of lilacs and a thrush's warble. The sun shone on the spring-green, five-fingered leaves and white candle-blossoms of a huge horse chestnut just visible from her bed.

To be cosseted for once was a pleasure, but the bright perfection of this last day of May called her out of doors. She drained the last drop of tea and threw back the covers.

Half an hour later, she was strolling down a gravel path between beds of roses sprouting new, reddish leaves and swelling green buds. Between the bushes, polyanthus vied with pansies to make the best show in a dozen brilliant colours. In the west, beyond gardens and park, fields and woods, the Welsh mountains loomed on the horizon.

An elderly gardener raking the gravel saluted her and she complimented him on the flowers. With a toothless beam, he poured forth a flood of words. His intonation was Welsh, but owing to the lack of teeth she was not sure whether he was speaking in that language or English. She smiled and nodded and strolled on.

The path ended at a steep flight of steps, patched with orange lichen, leading down to a lower level of gardens. Shaded from the morning sun, the stone was still damp from yesterday's rain. Laura hesitated. The less formal garden below was enticing, with peonies, columbine, and lily-of the valley surrounding a fountain. She had castigated Gareth for suggesting that she ought not to climb stairs. On the other hand, these were steep and looked slippery, and she had no need to tackle them.

She was about to turn away when she heard the crunch of rapid footsteps on the gravel path behind her. Before she turned, before he spoke, she knew it was Gareth.

“Cousin Laura! Don't go down there, I beg of you.”

He was bare-headed, his hair shining gold in the sun. The fear on his handsome face startled her. With a flash of insight, she recognized that he was driven less by regard for her, for Laura Chamberlain, than by some urgent inner compulsion.

Her curiosity increased, but the realization made it easier to say imperatively, “My lord, I am a grown woman and I refuse to be dictated to.”

“I only want to protect—”

“I know my own strength. I am accustomed to independence, to making my own decisions.”

“My duty—”

“If you continue to believe that my acceptance of your hospitality makes it your duty, or your right, to lay down the law,” she snapped, “I shall be obliged to return to Cambridgeshire at once.”

“No,” he cried, horror-stricken. “You must not attempt that journey again—”

“Must not?”

“I mean, please, cousin, don't leave. I could not endure knowing myself responsible if any harm should come to you.”

“No one could possibly hold you to blame.”

“I should blame myself.” He gave her a crooked, irresistible smile. “I beg your pardon for laying down the law. I shall do my best to curb the impulse, I promise you, if you will promise to forgive occasional lapses—and to take care of yourself.”

“It's a bargain.” Mollified, she held out her hand and he took it in both his. The warmth of his bare hands, strong and shapely, penetrated her thin, much-darned cotton gloves. It would be easy, she thought, to give up the struggle and let him take care of her. His dark blue eyes were warm, too, gazing down at her. If only his concern were for her as a person, not as a dependent, a pregnant dependent.

Feeling the warmth reach her cheeks, she pulled away her hand. “As a matter of fact, I had already decided that to have to climb back up these steps would be shatterbrained. Such a pity; the English garden is most attractive.”

“I should have trusted your common sense.” He grinned. “As it happens, there is a carriage drive behind those ilex bushes. If you wish, I shall help you down the steps and fetch the gig to drive you back up the hill to the house.”

“That will be delightful, cousin.” She laid her hand on his arm and they descended.

The fountain featured a pink marble naiad pouring a sparkling stream of water from an urn balanced on her shoulder. As they approached, Laura noticed a marble dragonfly perched on the lip of the urn, and then she saw that the naiad held a frog nestling in her other hand. The shelving rock she stood upon was a haven for other marble creatures: otters, newts, a water-vole, a pair of nesting ducks. Behind her a swan spread wide protective wings.

“Oh, charming!” Laura exclaimed. “I have never seen its like.”

“See if you can find the smallest creature.”

Challenged, she knelt with one knee on the rim of the fountain and peered at the sculpture. “A snail. There by the littlest otter.”

“Which would crunch it up, no doubt, were they real. But no, there is something smaller. Look next to the larger newt.”

“A beetle? Oh, a water boatman, of course. The children must love this.”

“We did, my brothers and I, when we were small. Maria's children are not allowed here.”

She frowned. “I recall some sort of hullabaloo over her sons when we arrived but I did not properly gather the cause—yes, I admit I was tired,” she added defensively. “Are they so ill-behaved they cannot be trusted in the gardens?”

“By no means. George and Henry are normal boys with a normal share of naughtiness. But Maria is convinced they will come to some dire end if they are permitted to run about.”

“Surely it cannot be healthy to keep them cooped up in the house.”

“They are allowed sedate walks in the shrubbery with their governess,” Gareth said dryly.